Monday, December 29, 2008

No more presents under the tree. Only stale broken bits of the Christmas cookies left. We can no longer locate the lower ornaments on our tree.

See.

They never had a chance.

We had a wonderful Christmas. Santa was good to all of us, especially the children. Jacob's bedroom is covered with the 1,000 piece Star Wars lego set that he knew Santa would bring, Adam has enough Bumblebee Transformers to share with all his friends, and Elizabeth got GIRL toys which thrilled Mommy to no end but, Beth, not near as much because those Bumblebees are pretty awesome.

And we all got a Wii.

I think it might be fun. It looks fun. Maybe one day someone other than Daddy can play it.

And maybe one day I might post pictures of all the post-opening Christmas chaos, but I left my camera cords at home when we packed up and drove to the lake the day after.

So, yeah, we're at the lake.

I was going to be home today, but since the kids and I have nothing else to do this week, we decided to stay here. I hope my parents can survive all this fun and togetherness. My dad decided to go to work today. I swear he said he was going to be off all this week. Hmmmm. I'm glad my mom got her heart fixed.

So I probably won't be around the blogs too much this week. You might be able to catch me on Facebook, though. Just go to Word Twist, I'll probably be there. You know, in all my free time.

Happy 2009! I hope it passes a little more slowly than 2008. It makes my kids grow up too fast.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Monday, December 22, 2008

Back in May when we decided to live beyond our means buy our new home, the husband and I both agreed not to purchase gifts for one another on our anniversary or Christmas anymore for the next few years and use that money to begin replenishing our savings and paying the newer, fatter mortgage.

That all seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn't miss an anniversary gift since I rarely got one anyway, but Christmas, well, who doesn't like to open a little something on the big day? Yeah, yeah, I want some *Peace on Earth and all the children of the world to hold hands and sing* as much as the next person, but as it got closer, I was a little bummed out about raising my husband's children 24/7/365 while being his live-in maid and not receiving a year end bonus.

But I wasn't going to renege on our deal. And, really, everyday here is like a gift now that we're out of the crappy neighborhood and I have a whirlpool tub and ample cabinet space.

But then the husband started to waver, felt like we should mark the occasion, just didn't seem right not to buy me a gift, all AFTER Thanksgiving where I will under NO circumstances shop outside of my home.

So. I came up with a clever plan. We would take an afternoon and go to the grocery store. Our big, fancy grocery store with the sushi bar and ready-to-go meals and all the foods we don't typically buy for ourselves any other time of the year due to our budget. Our 375 dollar a month grocery budget. We could buy whatever food we wanted, we could shop without coupons, we could purchase whatever we desired without feeling guilty that one afternoon and then we'd take our loot home and sate ourselves informally off of paper plates in front of rented movies and have our very own holiday party, just the five of us.

And with visions of California Rolls, the husband agreed.

So on Saturday, we set out on our quest for all things delicious and typically monetarily out of reach.

We spent a lot of time in the wine aisles. The reds were ten percent off, so SCORE!

I'm not much of a wine drinker, but the husband has a glass for his health.

I got beer instead.

We used the forbidden red cart. On a weekly trip, I refuse to employee that unsteerable, germ-laden monstrosity and the kids know it. They don't even ask for it anymore. But, hey, it's fun! and sticky And Christmas! And Daddy is there to push it so, what the heck?!

My golly it was fun! You can just sssllliiddee down into the nether regions of cart crustiness. Who needs to be healthy for the holidays???

Those poor little deprived boys were finally able to partake in the joy that is THEICEE. And they shared with their sister. Their sister who has, since yesterday, been running a high fever and dripping mucous from every orifice. Merry Christmas boys!

We blew about a third of our monthly budget on our cart full of edible heaven. The husband didn't even wait for our "party" and inhaled his sushi before we'd completely unloaded the car. I've been eating real, imported bleu (not blue) cheese and expensive antipasto from the olive bar. The boys enjoyed their Lunch*bles and ice cream and Spongebob mac and cheese. Elizabeth asked for only bananas, but she's not shy about sharing.

So I won't have a gift under the tree this Christmas. I don't really care anymore. We had such a blast shopping and enjoying our finds together. This is definitely going to become a new tradition at our house. Our new tradition in our new home.

**And I might share my olive bar goodness to anyone who can tell me where that reference is from**

Monday, December 15, 2008

This is what happens when you leave your laptop open while you're scouring the house for your lost car keys.

Which, by the way, I totally found. Twelve hours later. Or more accurately, Adam found when he finally told me where he put them.

He had no idea all day long where those keys where. Even after I promised him a brand spanking new Optimus Prime if he found them, he'd just shrug and say, "Me not know!" and go about his business. Shoot, he even patted my back at one point and told me it would all be okay and all that time he knew where they were!

WTH?

His story is that while I was drying my hair Elizabeth pushed a chair over to the counter and snagged my keys where I had left them when we came in the door. He knew she wasn't supposed to play with them so he took them from her and threw them wwwwaaaayyyy in the back of one of the kitchen cabinets so she couldn't find them.

Or anyone else either.

And I guess he forgot all about doing that until 9 p.m. when his Daddy asked him, after his own car key search, if he knew where Elizabeth put the keys when all of sudden he jumped up, went to the cabinet, and pulled them out.

My husband thinks I'm an idiot for not finding them and staying trapped in my house all day long while my kid rode home with a classmate at the last minute.

But he didn't find them either, so there.

But now I and my computer have keys again, so all is right with the world.

And as if I weren't lucky enough to have those all those keys back again, we went to a the company Christmas party this weekend without the children and we won a most awesome door prize

Those flowers are so pretty, huh?

But did you see my most awesome new camera?

We won a frickin' camera, man! It's a Nikon Coolpix and it's going to make me all cool like Ashton Kucher. Free = Cool.

And I also brought home a nice hefty hangover as well because forty year old Mommy can't drink like Twenty-two year old Girl-Without-Children could. The husband tried to warn me, but I don't get out much and they totally had an eighties cover band so the line between old me and this me was pretty hazy.

Note to self: Five beers is plenty. Seven will kill you the next day. And just don't drink at all if you have to drive eighty miles to a kid's birthday party the next day. Trust me on this one.

And now I need to spend the week baking and viewing the six hour defensive driving video before the end of the year so I don't get arrested.

I'll just be sure to close my computer and put my car keys away before I do it.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

It was the first time he'd done it this year. He's been practicing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" for two weeks now.

He was very excited.

He's reminded me every day that he'll be singing on December 10 at 9:00. He asks every morning if I'll be there to watch him sing and I assure him I wouldn't miss it for anything.

Except I should've added a bail-out exempting myself in the case of an act of G*d.

Or Elizabeth.

Elizabeth ran off with my car keys. My car keys that were in a basket on the counter away from her theiving little hands. How dare I think I could dry my hair!?

I've looked everywhere and they are no where to be found. She flushed the toilet a couple of times this morning before I could fish her away. Elizabeth loves the toilet. I didn't think too much about it other than how much I wanted to gripe at Jacob for leaving the door open again. Now, though, after upending everything in this house and still no keys, I'm thinking all that hysterical laughter was for more than just some potty water swirling.

So I did not get to see Jacob sing in chapel today. I called the office and had them send a note to class explaining but I know it won't make up for the fact that he stood up there to sing and couldn't find me. Because I know he spent the entire time looking for me. And I know he waited until he couldn't wait anymore for me to show up at his side and walk him back to class. To tell him what a good job he did. To tell him how proud I was of him.

But I wasn't there.

Yet another story for his therapist in twenty years to back up his claim that his Mama never loved him and ruined his life.

And I still have no car keys.

So he'll have even more to talk about when no one is there to pick him up this afternoon.

Tuesday, December 09, 2008

Elizabeth helped me prepare it. She has started showing an interest in the cooking process which thrills me to no end. The boys could not care less. They won't even frost a fricking Christmas cookie, but the girl will push over a chair and watch whatever I'm doing at the counter.

So last night she pulled up just in time to see me begin chopping a ton of shallots.

"Apple," she'd say, pointing and grinning. "Mmmmm."

"Shallot," I'd say.

"Apple," she continued to say to which I usually replied, "shallot." This went on a while. It was very cute.

After a while I amassed quite a pile when she grabbed a slice and and said, "Apple. Mmmmm." and then popped that piece of raw shallot right into her mouth.

Then...

"Shallot." She said. And made a face. I didn't have the camera to catch the face, but I did go fetch it once she realized that, hey, those don't taste like apples, but I think I might like them anyway.

Sunday, December 07, 2008

Saturday, December 06, 2008

I may just make this a regular post. I'm finding lots of old crap stuff back there.

February 11, 2008

You'd never know I wrote a paper in my early childhood psychology class about the ill effects of dressing your children alike. They won't form their own identities! They will lose all creativity! All prisoners were at some time dressed like their siblings!

I so obviously did not have children at that time.

Because, ittle-bitty matching outfits are SO awesome!

And Mommy feels like she's won a scavenger hunt when she finds three in all the right sizes!

I can't believe how much they've grown since then. It doesnt' seem that long ago.

Friday, December 05, 2008

Oh, I know, everyone knows, they go door to door and in a quest for converts. I thought it was all pretty random, but I think I have my own personal Witnesses. The same two woman have been here three times since we moved here. The first few times I thought they were making their rounds through the neighborhood, that they were sharing the wealth, if you will, with everyone. Today, however, I saw them drive their big white caddie into my driveway and since I was expecting someone here to fix a window, I opened the door. When I saw who it really was, though, I got a little ticked. Them. Again. The first time they showed up, I'll be honest, I didn't listen much. Trying to keep three children and two animals inside the doorway takes some skill and I'm not that good of a multitasker. I took their pamphlets with a smile because I am like that. Plus I was living in a new neighborhood and what if they caused a scene if I dared disagree with them? The second time they came I was literally, and no I wasn't lying, walking out the door so they shoved some pamphlets into my hand and went on their merry way. Today, they were a little more forceful. Lady One read to me from the pamphlet. Something about how Jesus really is okay with drinking wine, I mean, why else would He have turned water into it? Huh? Huh? Whatever. You can believe what you want to believe, lady. Did you see the bottles of wine in my recyclable bin and think you could convince the drinker in me to join you? Ha! The husband is the wine drinker, that argument won't go far on me. All the while Lady Two was hunched down grinning at Child Three while trying to shimmy closer to the threshold. Then Lady One switched to some part about Jesus requiring cleanliness and, again, it's okay to drink and have a good time, just don't get drunk, okay? Then:

JW: (Pointing at my Christmas tree and decorations with an exaggerated swoop of her hand)Many people are confused this time of year and we are here to set the record straight and let you know what Jesus is really all about?

JW: I can see where you'd be confused, everyone is this time of year. If we could just come in and speak this over with you.

Me: No, thank you. We are busy today and I honestly don't feel very confused. (as I try to shut the door in her face)

JW: (as the door is closing) You have beautiful children! How adorable!

After thinking a bit about these encounters I am wondering this:

1. How did they get through our front gate? Who gave her the code or voiced her in?

2. They came in the neighborhood and came straight to my house. When they left, they left out of the neighborhood so they obviously came just for me. The more I think about this the more I remember that everytime a Witness has come to my door has been pretty soon after I've moved someplace new. So. How do they know we're new here? Are they in cahoots with the post office? Do they search public mortgage records? Is that part of their plan? Befriend the new folks in town and feed them the kool-aid? Hope someone is looking for someone to chat with and BAM!? What?

3. Why come at Christmas and so obviously frown at my beliefs? Are they hoping I have such low self-esteem that I'll instantly conform just so they'll like me?

4. Do they get points for every convert?

5. Was the whole "You're kids are beautiful" routine part of the schpiel? Why yes, they are beautiful! And since we agree on that we must agree about Jesus too?

Really. I don't have a problem with Jeho*ah's Witnesses. Our country was founded on freedom of religion and they are entitled to theirs. I am also entitled to mine. Maybe I should've made it clear to them the first time that I believe in God, that I (sometimes) go to church, that I'm confident in those beliefs and thank you very much. I do have a problem with people coming to my home, my home so obviously celebrating the birth of Christ with it's nativity scenes and Christmas tree, and telling me how I should believe.

My aunt became Jeho*ah's Witness fifty years ago. It nearly killed my God-fearing Christian grandmother. She moved very far away from home with her new husband and had four kids in seven years. She was lonely. And depressed. She had no friends for a long time. Until two Jeho*ah's Witnesses showed up at her door. Then she had friends. Then she wasn't lonely. She never tried to convert us. In fact, she was very receptive to any Christmas gifts given to her or her children, holiday surprises she called them. Go figure? What do you think the fold would think of that? My aunt is happy at her Kingdom Hall. I am happy for her. But I can see where my aunt may not have been strong enough in herself to stand up for what she had previously believed in. I just see her wanting someone to talk to while her husband worked long hours and she cared for her kids. And I wonder? Did they know that too?

So seriously. I'm not trying to be anti-anything. Really, I'm not. I just want to know what the deal is. I want to know why I've been targeted, so to speak, and how I can kindly let them know that their visits really don't bring out the joyful in me. Come hang and have tea or coffee with me, but please don't try to convert me.

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Adam had his first dentist appointment a couple of weeks ago. You know, because he just turned three. Ten months ago. Part of the reason it was so late was because I forgot about it, but when I did remember it, I'd put it out of my mind and remember Jacob's first trip to the dentist. Let's just say it wasn't fun. Jacob at three hated ladies and hated to have his teeth brushed. Then I took him and let a lady brush his teeth. Ah, good times. Yes, he has a red file there.

But he's better now and even tolerates the gritty mint toothpaste that was the previous provoker of white-coated nightmares. He is seven after all. But Adam, Adam is still three so I put it off as long as I could, until I was reminded by snarky forwarded postcard that Jacob had missed his six month appointment and it had been *gasp* nine months so I bit the bullet and took them both in for checkups.

I did not prepare Adam for the dentist. I've learned my lesson about the over preparing, scares the crap out of my over-analytical kids. I put them in the car, drove down the road, and when I pulled into my parking space turned around and said, "Yeah, we're going to the dentist! Hooray for healthy teeth!" and led them to the door. Jacob grumbled a bit about it and let me know all too often his opinion of the mint toothpaste, but Adam was intrigued, so I gave a brief overview of all things oral medicine while Jacob took his turn first. I expected resistance or at the least bit some apprehension, but all I got was some pissiness over having to wait his turn (and almost an hour at that).

But his turn finally came and he was eager to chew the ugly pink tablets and show the lady just how clean his teeth really were (and they were, he does love to brush his teeth). I thought he might cry going alone down the dark hallway of doom but he just waved and I think I saw him skip at some point. Now, typically, a child's first visit consists of the pink tooth wash and an introduction to the dentist and then you schedule a follow up a month later for a cleaning. You know, because it's easier on the kids. Has nothing to do with getting paid for another appointment, no. When I was finally able to go "to the back", the dentist said he was so impressed with how well Adam did that he would clean his teeth then and there to save me a co-pay a trip. And since this post is about Adam I'll only touch on the fact that he had me sit down and threatentalk to Jacob about ceasing the screaming or they'd have to sedate him for the sealants he was getting. But see Dentist Man! It's not me, one of them is GOOD!

So Adam had his teeth cleaned. He was so proud. He received THREE prizes (and Jacob was grudgingly given one. A small one) and a new patient baggie filled with his new toothbrush, floss, toothpaste, and a six month supply of pink pills. He carried that bag around with him until it fell apart last week. I wish I'd taken his picture with it. Anyway, the point of my post, and it does have one, is that the dentist was thrilled with Adam's clean teeth. His bite, not so much. I cannot believe I never noticed it before, but his front teeth don't meet.

See.

I just always assumed he had a quirky smile, but no. His teeth haven't come all the way down and are a bit poked out, while straight, they aren't where they are supposed to be.

And I was totally thinking we'd have to start saving for those braces now and not what the dentist had in mind which was trash-the-pappy.

OMG! Do not make me take the pappy away from my teeny, tiny, itty-bitty baby! Because, uh, he's a baby. Sure he wears underpants and plays Star Wars but he still says leggalow (yellow) and sucks a pappy. Because he's a BABY! My baby!

So the pappy is evil because it has caused Adam to lay his tongue around it, pushing his teeth forward. Apparently this *could* also be the reason he says leggalow too. Or, you know, didn't talk for, like, ever.

Yeah. I ruined my child's teeth AND his speech! I am SO Mother of the Year.

So that dentist soothingly told me to ease my BABY off his last token of babyness oral device and patted Adam's leg and sugary-sweetly told him his teeth would be so much better if he ditched the Nuk.

And that's what he did.

He gave me all his pappies. He said he didn't need them because he was a big boy.

It hasn't been easy on him. He's a little cranky. He cries over little things. He lets me know he's sad. He went a whole week without taking that pappy, even when I'd offer him one at night to sleep he'd say no, it would ruin his teeth, he was a big boy. Although he's had a few setbacks, he is ready to give up his baby crutch. Mommy? Not so much. I know I am being crazy, but it almost physically hurts me to get rid of those pappies. Those three remaining pappies are the last link I have to Adam's babyhood. It went by so quickly. I'm not ready for it to be over. I thought it would only be hard with the first kid. But I was wrong. It doesn't get easier.

Adam is officially a big boy I guess. I knew it was coming. I just didn't expect it so soon.

I'm so proud of him. How many three year olds would give up their favorite possession all in the name of straight teeth?

Monday, December 01, 2008

I realize Thanksgiving is a huge travel holiday, but come on. What we encountered last night went beyond a little bit of traffic, it was the crazy, angry, homicidal person convention on Interstate 10.

Seriously. Who gives these people a drivers license?

I totally get the need to make it home quickly. Believe me, no one wanted to be cozy and warm in their own home more than I did. Sitting in the same spot for four hours listening to screaming children amidst the faint aroma of cat urine can really wear on a person. And does everyone have a rendition of Sleigh Ride? I love the all-Christmas-all-the-time radio station but nine different versions in two hours seems a bit excessive. How about a little Frosty the Snowman once in a while? Joy to the World?

But Joy to the World would've been much too ironic for the situation. There was no joy on the highway last night. Lot's of shouting, many middle fingers, but no joy. No. We're on the interstate about seventy miles or so, usually less than an hour, but last night we were there two. Traffic came to a stand still half way to our exit. We thought there may have been an accident, most likely the brand new silver Ford Focus with the high school tassel hanging from the rear view who was apparently on it's way to a huge emergency judging by the way it cut everyone off and rode the center white line for a while. What a shame we thought. So young. So angry. So we turned up the tunes and took bets on who'd sing Sleigh Ride next. Willie Nelson? Miley Cyrus? Nirvana? We putted along at five mph for a while longer. The cars next to us played Chinese fire drill. Why not? We weren't going anywhere. The guy to my right finished off his tall boy in a bag. Because, did you know they sell single alcoholic beverages at the gas stations in Texas? They so do. No, that doesn't interfere with the open container laws at all. People just want to buy one at an exorbitant price because they look all pretty lined up in that cooler of ice, much nicer than a cardboard box. Some people gave up and took the frontage road even though we seasoned interstate drivers knew it would end at the river a few miles up. Suckers.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, stuck in traffic. So the husband wants me to roll down the window and look for the red and blue lights because surely we should be coming upon that mangled Ford Focus. Is it blocking the left lanes or the right lanes? We need that information so we can be prepared and be in the correct lane. I almost killed us all with the exhaust fumes, but there were no lights. No sirens. Just lines and lines or cars. So. Many. Cars. Holy Crap! What the hell was going on?

You want to know what was going on?

The left lane of the road ended. That's what.

The highway went from three lanes to two just as it has since it was constructed, oh, fifty some years ago. I don't know why this surprised some drivers as that sign, you know the one, the one that says LEFT LANE ENDS was posted six times, every half mile for three miles. Some people heeded the warning and got over quickly. Some kept talking on their cells and then realized they needed to get over and would apologetically beg for entrance. The angry, aggressive even-an-expensive-car-can't-make-me-happy people gunned to the front and cut their way in. We sat in traffic while the baby screamed, our bladders filled, and gas fumes were all that was left because a bunch of idiots had to win.

My biggest traffic peeve. Just get over already. Quit being a dumb ass. Please tell me there's a special line at the Pearly Gates for those people.

And if that weren't enough. All those line jumpers who thought they'd found the secret passage were turned around and came crawling back to reenter on the right side. Oh, but excuse us, go right ahead and cut us off. We're just sitting here. Wait! It's another Sleigh Ride. Yeah!

But we made it home. Thank God. I think I saw the dog kiss the ground as he disembarked. The cat was thrilled to have a skin shreddingrelaxing bath afterwards. And the brand new silver Ford Focus lived to see another day. We passed it going the speed limit right before our exit.

Only 25 more days until the Christmas traffic fest! I'll be sure to remember snacks and my own music then.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Since we won't be here this weekend, we put our Christmas tree this past weekend.

Elizabeth had a blast. For every three ornaments we hung on the tree, she ran off with one. She has a secret stash somewhere, I just haven't found it yet.

She also spent a fair amount of time saying cheese, wanting me to take her picture. I have a couple dozen more pretty much just like these. How can you turn down a kid saying cheese?

Jacob was not as enthusiastic.

Apparently it is not fun Or cool to decorate a Christmas tree with your parents when you are SEVEN! Seriously? I got only six fun family ornament hangings with him? I feel gipped.

Thank goodness I had my cheesy girl to make me feel better about it.

Adam missed it all together because he chose to spend the weekend with his grandparents. But because I love him too and don't want to leave him out, even if we did have super family you're-causing-me-to-miss-Ben10 fun without him, here he is:

Sunday, November 23, 2008

I found this one while cleaning out my draft file and simultaneously flipping through football games yesterday. I swore I'd posted this way back when, but well, I was suffering from severe sleep deprivation. Since I am woefully at a loss for good posting material, I'll take a cue from Aunt Becky and revisit the past.....

Has anyone ever regretted their child's name?

I am beginning to wonder about Elizabeth....it's so long, so many letters, and takes forever to roll off the tongue.

You can't easily make up songs in the middle of the night with it. It doesn't work with the Name Game song either.

You start to think you may have chosen a clunker when the grandparents start calling her by her middle name.

Elizabeth is a beautiful name, but is it really my kid's name?

How did we come up with our baby's name you ask?

It wasn't easy.

As you know we struggled with that issue throughout the pregnancy. I thought I would go with the first two names I came up with, Lorelei and Noah, but the husband despised those names. I would come up with one I thought was wonderful only to have husband nix it because he could make a stupid nickname with it or someone else down the family line already owned it. It was very frustrating. I, in turn, nixed most of his names because, well, they were just ugly AND he had the audacity to suggest Heather, thinking I would not remember the time when we first started dating and he drove the ten hours to the beach to visit me only to stop off in Richmond for a quickie with "his friend" Heather. Yeah, let's name her Heather.

One weekend as we were traveling to the lake, Derick and I spent the entire three hours going over the name book, both boy and girls, and Jacob piped up from the back seat that he wanted Jordan for a boy (absolutely not) and Elizabeth for a girl. The husband was so sick of rehashing the whole scene that he decided he loved the name Elizabeth and why hadn't we thought of it before (he agreed with me about Jordan, sorry Jordan lovers). I, ready to move on to boy names thinking it was much more relevant, said okay and that was that.

Fast forward a couple months and I am still searching for a boy name. I sat down with husband one night to rehash it and for whatever reason I decided I wasn't too keen on Elizabeth after all and that we should just completely start over and find something we absolutely loved without a doubt. Husband still expressed his love for Elizabeth but agreed to look at anything I came up with....ditto boy name. So, I narrowed my list to variations of these names:

And eventually went with Ethan Samuel and Rachel Erinn. Obviously husband didn't agree with me. After much discussion, we then agreed on Nathaniel Peyton (to be called Nate) and Laura Elizabeth (to be called Laura Beth). So we tried on those names for a few weeks and decided we didn't like those so much either because Nathaniel was taken by some cousins and friends and, well, it felt too creepy to call our child Laura everyday (although idiot husband told sister we were using that name and now she is mad at me for not using it, whole other story), so we were back to square one.

Two days before Elizabeth's birth husband came in while I was watching Letterman (do not disturb during top ten list, geez) and let me know that he just really felt in his heart that we were having a girl and that he continued to see the name Elizabeth all kinds of places, like the news and The View and to him it was a sign that it was to be her name, so I agreed I would think about it but I still wanted to pack the name list in my bag and wait to see what she (or he) looked like. I did find it strange, though, when I woke up from what little sleep I got the morning of the birth and the song "Beth" by Kiss was tooling around my brain. Have you ever had that happen? What was even creepier, was that the same song came on the radio halfway to the hospital. Cue The Twillight Zone music please.

But anyway, after she was born and I got a good look at her, I felt she was a Rachel. Husband swore she was an Elizabeth. So, just like her brothers before her, she went nameless her first day of life, although unbeknownst to me, husband had already told everyone at work and church that her name was Elizabeth Laura.....gee thanks for letting me have some input dude. Of course, the next day was Friday and the birth registry lady came through to finish the birth certificate papers and she needed a name by 4 p.m. because, of course, she wasn't working over the weekend. I was still holding out for Rachel and he was still holding out for Elizabeth. It was a struggle of wills, I tell you, and I still think that after being cut open three times that I should have hand in that situation, but in the end we decided to go with our trusty formula used the other two times. We just put our choices together. The reason Elizabeth won out as the first name is because Adam won out as the first name last time, which was my choice and that's how we came up with our only daughter's name.

I guess it's too late to change it once the announcements have gone out right?

So there you have it, Elizabeth. When you're a teenager and want to change your name to Soleil or something equally "cool". You have proof that Elizabeth was NOT my idea so you can quit rolling your eyes at me.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

She arrived two days later than planned due to a train derailment that delayed her connection. My husband even looked at me funny when he heard that news and I assure you all, I DID NOT have anything to do with that. I did look at him funny when he informed me that his mother would not be smoking while she was here because she'd told him she'd quit months ago. Weird, but the weekly letters she mails stink up our mailbox. Maybe it's the postman? But she's his MOM, she would never lie to him!

She was here a whole hour before she approached ME, away from HIM, to beg pitifully and pull the sick old woman card ask if she could smoke because how dare I assume she could go so long without one? The husband grinned at me beside his grill through the kitchen windows and I figured they'd concocted that one.

"I don't care if you smoke, Mom, but you need to ask Andria because her head will spin and she will rake my privates over these coals if I say it's okay. Make her feel like shit about it. Go ahead."

And that's when I started calculating just how much I'd have to make to afford this mortgage all on my own. And, well, I can't.

So I smiled, told her how I felt about my kids and secondhand smoke, told her I really didn't want her too, but if she really had to, we had a patio. And a park across the street. And I left it at that while my blood boiled.

That's how Martha Stewart would've handled it. Right?

And WOW, that was the first time I'd seen the monster-in-law smile since she walked through our doors. Oh, the joy over slowly feeding us nicotine and tar! So she went outside to smoke. And I swear, my husband's head started to spin.

"But Mom, you said you'd quit. You said you wouldn't smoke AT ALL. You swore this would not be an issue. Where did those cigarettes come from? Did you just buy them or did you BRING THEM WITH YOU?"

Because, duh, she totally brought them with her. Because, you know, she doesn't smoke anymore. You're the one who fell for that one, man.

Tell her NO! NO, you won't allow our children to be exposed to the carcinogens! Tell her she can stay at a motel if she insists on smoking! She LIED to you! You're not going to put up with that are you????

But no, she's smoking on the porch. And lucky me, because I can't tolerate the smell of smoke, she's been very kind to cover it up with three different scents of perfume. I know it's just coincidental that two of them trigger migraines for me, but surely she can't remember that little conversation we had when she bought the crap last year.

After two solid days of the migraine from hell, the husband did finally ask her to lay off the drugstore cologne, but it's too late. It's in our furniture, our carpet, Adam's room and his closet full of clothes. I found an old bottle of Fe*reeze in the garage and that has helped, but now when you open the door instead of that lovely new house smell, you're hit with White Diamonds Avec Smoky Air Freshener and you swear you're at the bingo hall down the street.

Martha Stewart probably wouldn't tell her guest to quit their perfume would she?

What burns me the most, though, is that EVERY time she wants to smoke she shuffles right on over to ME, right in front of her perfect son, and looks me right in the eye and asks me if it's okay if she has a cigarette. And she always adds how she's gone as long as she possibly can without one and she wouldn't ask if she weren't about to be sick without it. And it's always up to me. Isn't that polite and considerate? Her son looks at me as if to say, "I dare you. I dare you to tell MY MOTHER that she can't do something that she so obviously needs to do. Go ahead. Let me watch you try." To which I have to reply, "Sure, L, go right ahead. Would you like to snuff it out in my open hand when you're done, too? And everyone smiles and everyone's happy and life is good again in our home sweet home.

Until last night when she went out at 1 a.m. setting off the alarm and my husband thought we were being burglarized.

She can thank me later for keeping the husband from getting his gun.

And for being considerate and polite about her feelings and not shoving that lighter up her ass for waking us all up like that. How nice it was for her to be able to go right to sleep after that while I was up until 5 a.m. with my adrenaline pumping and getting kids back to sleep.

But, you know, I'm a bad hostess for not indulging my guest's addiction to cigarettes. I should be more tolerant and accepting and truly understand her need to light up twenty times a day, because, you know, I've never walked a mile in her shoes, yada, yada, yada. Nevermind that she totally LIED about her freaking cigarette addiction before she got here. Nevermind that she agreed without hesitation to NOT. SMOKE. AT. ALL.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

We had a dog when I was growing up. An old black mutt that just showed up one Sunday morning while I was in second grade. My parents were not going to keep that dog, no way, no how, but three weeks later my mom was making sure it had water every morning. Two weeks after that she picked up a bag of food to add to that. Somewhere down the line a flea collar was purchased "only because we don't want fleas near our house". We were told not to name her because she was not our dog, but when we took her to the vet two years later for vaccinations, "just in case", my mom said she was Baby, because we always called her Baby.

Baby was there when Granny died. She eased the transition from Texas to West Virginia. She weathered many a sad high school break up with me. She was always the first to greet me when I returned from college. I loved that dog.

One winter day when I was in graduate school, I returned from work to see my mom sitting in her car in my apartment parking lot. I knew why she was there before she ever made it out of the car. Baby got sick. She could no longer walk. She cried a lot. My parents couldn't watch her suffer anymore so they they put her down. My mom drove three hours immediately to me, my dad drove four hours immediately to my sister. They didn't want to tell us over the phone. My mom and I cried for two days straight. I am guessing my sister and my dad did too.

Going home after that was strange. No wagging tail to great me at the car door. No lumpy dog to sit under my feet. No one to sneak food to under the table. We talked about another dog, but no one was ready for that. We already had the best dog ever, how in the world could we love another one like that?

But we'd never had a cat. We never loved a cat before. Maybe that would be good. But the parents were againstit. They never wanted another animal again. They just die and make you cry and you can't go on vacation on a whim! No, no animals!

So on a rare day off, I had nothing to do, no friends in my college town for the summer, so I spent ten minutes thinking that I really needed a cat for company and found the animal shelter in Morgantown and went looking for a sweet, yellow cat.

I found one too. So pretty, that cat. I wanted that yellow cat.

But the volunteer was crying. Sobbing, actually. She wanted me to look at a different cat. Plllleeeaassseee would I look at this other cat? The other cat she was taking to the back room? The other cat who would be put to sleep in forty minutes that the volunteer couldn't take home with her because her husband was already mad about the twelve other cats she'd taken home with her?

Ten minutes later I was driving down the road with a kitten clinging to my neck. Because, you know, I'd never had a cat before and didn't know she could just climb right out of that cardboard box I'd brought.

On June 1, 1993, I brought Haley home. She was not yellow. She was not sweet. She was black. She was tiny. She never meowed. She never purred. She would jump out from under the bed and bite my ankles. She nipped at my ears while I slept. She erased messages from my answering machine and killed the fish in the fish tank. But she had the most beautiful green eyes I'd ever seen. And she was always waiting for me at the door when I came home. I liked that.

When I moved to Virginia to start "My Life", I lived in an apartment that didn't allow pets, so I left her with my parents until I could buy a house and bring her home. Nine months later, my parents brought her to me as promised, but I sent her back after seeing how attached she was to them. She was sweet to them. For two people who'd complained incessantly about being saddled with a cat, they seemed pretty happy to be going back with her.

So a few months later I got my own cat. My parents were enjoying "their" cat. After years of being dog people, we were suddenly cat people.

But as animals always do, they age. They get old. Haley did too. She lost some weight. Her bones became brittle. Her hair became matted because she was too tired to clean it. She got picky with her food. She didn't run from the kids anymore because she could barely hear them. But she was still Haley. Her green eyes still sparkled. She still ran to the door when I came, just a little slower. She was okay.

But she really wasn't.

Haley died two days ago.

We don't know if something was wrong with her or if she just got old.

I am voting for old because my parents feel bad enough about it already.

Either way, she lived fifteen more years than she would have if I hadn't been bored and impulsive one summer afternoon.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

If you own a dog and are currently paying $240 bucks a year for monthly flea pills, just know that flea pills DO NOT kill or prevent fleas. That cute little puppy at the summer camp is liar! I know this is fact because A. We have fleas. and B. A call to the vet confirmed that it's not completely effective if you do things like take your dog outside. Seriously.

Me: "I think my animals have fleas and I'm wondering how that's possible since he's been taking a flea pill for, oh, about five years now."Vet Tech: "Does Ezra go outside?"Me: "Uh, yeah. Sometimes."Vet Tech: "Is he walked?"Me: "Uh, yeah. Sometimes."Vet Tech: "Then you run the risk of him getting some fleas." Me: "But he's taking that flea pill that was recommended for him."Vet Tech: "uh-huh"Me: "Shouldn't he NOT have fleas?"Vet Tech: "Well.....Does he go outside?"Me: "Yeah"Vet Tech: "Then that's where he got the fleas."

WTF?

I'm still waiting for her to call me back with the information about the so-called miracle pill that will rid my dog AND my cat of this foulness because did you also know that flea powders, flea shampoos, and flea collars sold at the big red store of goodness do not work. Oh no. I'd just be wasting my money on those things. They need a pill. Because, you know, those pills worked so well for them before.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

I remember Election Night 2000. I was pregnant with Jacob. We had Hooters for dinner because all I could eat until Christmas that year was hot wings. Then I spent the rest of the night monitoring contractions thus beginning my odyssey into pre-term labor. Fun.

On Election Night 2004, I was pregnant with Adam. Jacob had his first hot dog for dinner that night. Two hours later we all met the hot dog again on his sheets, his floor, his wall. More fun times.

On Election Night 2008, I was home alone with three kids who had maneuvered themselves into the pantry and on top of the highest shelf to feed themselves Halloween candy while I was sprawled out on the cool, cool tile of the bathroom floor puking every fifteen minutes.

Election Night does not agree with me, apparently.

In fact, I did not even know who won until I woke up this morning.

And I guess I could write an entire soliliquy about the entire event, but you can find all kinds of takes on it all over the web today, and plus I have bigger things on my mind today.

My mother-in-law is coming tomorrow.

She arranged her trip, paid her money, hopped on a train, all without running it by us first. Well, at least that's the husband's story and he's sticking to it.

She left a series of strange voice mails detailing her trip arrangements while we were at the lake a couple weeks ago. When she knew we'd be at the lake. When she knew we wouldn't get her calls. When she could just do whatever and we could just accept it because she couldn't get her money back. She'll be here tomorrow and she's staying until November 23. Or maybe the the 15th. It changes everytime she calls. Which is a lot. I do love Caller Id.

In case you missed last year's installment, my mother-in-law hates me. Well, all my in-laws do, but she's the only who thinks it's her God given right to show up here whenever she pleases. I have no idea why she comes. She spends the first half-hour acting like she loves the kids but when times up she sets about her "vacation" which is too park herself at the table with our telephone and call everyone she knows every single day to let them know "Can you believe she br*astfeeds that baby?", "She cooks the strangest meals, all I want is a pot of beans. I'd give anything for a pot of beans.", and my all time favorite, "They are beautiful children. Thank goodness they all look like Derick."

But you know the biggest reason I dread her visits?

She smokes. Oh, sure, sure, she'll smoke on the patio. She'll give me the evil eye while she's doing it, but she'll go out to the patio because the husband lets her know just how much I hate it. Never mind that he hates it too, it's really just my problem because then he'd have to disagree with his mom about something and we can't have that can we? What a monster I am to want to shield my children from all that tar and nicotine that could potentially give them cancer one day! So, yeah, she'll smoke her pack and a half a day outside, but when she comes back in she reeks. And her clothes reek. And then my furniture reeks. And then my daughter's room will stink because all her stuff stinks.

You know what I love? When I walk into my house it still has that new house smell. I've never had new house smell before. I love me some new house smell. I'll be trading new house smell for sleazy bar smell in just a matter of days. My heart is breaking.

Another November. Another eventful election. Another Mother-in-law visit.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

And then Adam camped out on the bathroom floor for a while between pukes. There's not much sadder than a kid vomiting in a festive costume.

Poor kid. He always gets the short end of the stick. Middle child AND sick on Halloween.

I am sure the right thing to do there would've been to cancel Halloween and replaced it with some other fun activity like, say, sipping mugs of chicken soup, but you try telling your candy-deprived, costume-clad youngsters that trick-or-treat is over.

And he seemed better.

So we went anyway.

Good thing I was swayed to buy that extra costume. Optimus Prime became Bumblebee, a new sort of Transformer I guess, and we were on our way.

We circled our side of the neighborhood. We got tons and tons of really good candy. There were 100 Grands. And Butterfingers. And lots and lots of Snickers bars. No crappy candy here.

Elizabeth was in heaven. Slobbery, sticky, heaven.

And we met a lot of the neighbors. Nice people.

And all was right with the world.

Until right about the time Daylight Savings Time ended.

Adam was suddenly sick again. More vomit. High fever.

And he's still sick.

And now I'm sick. And the husband is flying out of town tomorrow morning. Joy.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

I thought, initially, that it would be easy to sell. It was completely updated, in great, move-in shape, and priced at the very low end of comparables for our neighborhood. Yeah, it was a crappy neighborhood to me, but tons of people live there and seem to like it so surely some saps would fall in love with it instantly.

So we bought the new house and started paying two mortgages.

And we kept paying two mortgages.

Yeah, maybe it was the housing market. Could've been the mortgage companies. Might have been the lookers didn't like what they saw, you know, if they actually saw the house.

Because, really, I think it was the realtor. And here's the story:

Back in April before we'd even decided to buy and sell, I got an email from a semi-sorta friend who was just starting out in the real estate business. And by semi-sorta I mean the wife of the husband's co-worker who sent me mass evites and emails to come purchase baskets, candles, stamps, and even electricity each month. We went to the same college and sometimes I'd see her at the alumni functions, but my kids seemed to make her nervous, so we never got together any other time. And yes, writing this, I realize she was just another face in the crowd, but we went to the same college! And we live far away! That makes us friends, right? Sorta?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, well, back in April I got another mass email. She was trying to sell her own house and not having much luck (can we say WAY over-priced?)and was wondering if any of her "friends" were on the house hunt and, of course, if you knew anyone who needed a realtor she was available. I know. I should have pressed delete but instead wrote her a complete saga about how we'd found a house we loved that we couldn't afford and, really, couldn't afford what we liked so we were staying put. To which she instantly replied inquiring about our needs, wants, and price range, and, of course, I instantly answered. And we played a little game of email tag where she'd send me links to homes in our price range and I'd tell her again how we weren't interested but thanks anyway and eventually they tapered off to nothing.

And then we drove by this house.

And decided to buy it.

And then I got another link to an okay home in the neighborhood across the street. And I didn't delete that one either. I shot back another saga about how, WOW, we can afford that awesome house after all and we'll be signing the papers TOMORROW, thanks a lot, but we're good.

And then I started getting frantic emails about how we shouldn't sign anything without her. We need to be represented by a realtor. Do we need her to call an inspector? Since the emails contained CAPITAL LETTERS and words like, OH MY G*D, I HOPE IT'S NOT TOO LATE!, I forwarded them to the husband who told me that part of the reason we were getting the house cheaper was because we weren't using the builder's realtor and, yeah, she could represent us, but then we'd be paying her about 12,000 bucks for sitting in a meeting with us. So we signed the papers without her and pretended I didn't get the email until a few days later. By then she'd worked up all the comparable lists on both homes and had the email equivalent of the Amway man's foot wedged into my front door jamb. Let me show you this.

Well, to make this long story as short as I can, Because I am such a stupid idiot nice person, I convinced the husband that we should use semi-friend to sell our house because if either of us were in the same situation, we would want someone to do the same for us. Plus, I figured, if she only had ONE home to sell, she could really work to sell that ONE home. That, and the realtor he wanted to use once lived three doors up and never spoke one word to me, yet when she came to our house she acted like we'd been dear friends even commenting on how she couldn't believe how much Jacob had grown since she'd seen him last. And they moved before I was ever pregnant. Wow.

So Semi-friend brings her boss over to check the house and we like him immediately, kinda a grandfatherly type who at one point balanced both littles on his lap while dodging attempts at a lip balm makeover. Sold. We'll take him.

So Semi-Now Realtor-Friend makes a date to come sign the contracts and take pictures and when said time arrives, her boss came instead. Something came up for Semi but he didn't have a problem taking care of it. Okay. Whatever.

So now our house is on the market. We've moved to new house. Let the buyers line up!

Semi holds an open house. Five families showed. All of them our nibby neighbors. She couldn't figure out why no one came. Couldn't have been the fact that she didn't advertise it on the MLS site or only put a sign in the front yard. We lived at the end of a cul-de-sac, how was anyone BUT the neighbors supposed to know about it? But we were nice, gave her some tips about signs and the internet and waited for the next open house.

But Semi didn't show up for the open house. Her boss did. Seems Semi went on vacation. Might've been nice if she'd given us a little heads up about that. But it was all good. The boss put out street signs and an ad in the newspaper. More lookers, but no takers.

When the friend returned from vacation she called to let us know that we had an offer on the house (didn't pan out). We were shocked because we never even knew it was being shown. We really expected a heads up each time she (or another realtor) showed it. Maybe she figured she didn't have to call because we weren't living there, but still. She could've just emailed me. That always worked before.

The next week it was posted at husband's work that Semi's husband had taken a transfer to Ohio effective the end of June. It was, like, June 18.

A few phone messages and emails later, my husband finally contacts her and very nicely gives her an out on the deal by telling her we would just let Boss-man handle everything and didn't even add the part about how he was pretty much already doing that anyway. She seemed offended. We didn't have to worry. She wasn't going to Ohio until at least September. She had to sell her house. And see all the friends she was going to miss. Okay.

Then husband went to her husband's farewell party where they announced that they'd be having another baby. In December. Uh-huh. So he approaches her to congratulate her and ask how she's doing and, of course, she's sick as a dog and SO tired, and he, again, gives her an out, and she assures him she'll sell that house soon. She was going to go with her husband to Ohio for a week to look at houses, but she'd be back and we'd meet and strategize the sale then. Okay.

That was the last time we ever heard from our Semi-Sorta Realtor.

The next week I went back to old house for more stuff and noticed her name had been removed from the For Sale sign. The husband thought maybe the neighborhood kids had stolen it, but I knew. Her boss would tell us every time we asked that she was still working on our house just "behind the scenes". Supposedly she came back in late August to pack up her own home and Boss-man asked if we were able to get together with them before they left and seemed a tad confused when we told him we hadn't spoken to her since June.

I still can't believe she did that.

Once she found out she was leaving town she was done with us. Totally blew us off personally and professionally. I don't even get the mass emails anymore.

I really did like her boss. I'd use him again. In fact, we might even have him over for dinner one day. My kids miss him. He's a good guy. I sure hope he kept the entire commission.

So the lesson for today children:

Don't do business with your friends. Even your sorta-kinda friends. It's more hassle than it's worth.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

I can still remember this day. It doesn't seem that long ago. I still feel a wee bit giddy when I buy a pretty dress or lacy socks. Will that ever get old?

I pulled your baby book out of the waterproof hurricane container and I almost cried when I realized I hadn't kept it up as well as I should have. I know you have more than six teeth and you had a first word. Just don't ask me what day they came. Or what the word was. It was kitty wasn't it? Adam maybe? I know since you are a girl you will want these milestones recorded and I'll try to do better from here but the fact remains that Jacob has an extensive chronicle of his baby/toddler/child days because he came first. There are advantages to being the baby. This just isn't one of them.

You are talking more. In fact, you talk a lot, we just don't understand most of what you say. It sounds a lot like babble, but there's an inflection to it that makes me think it's words you have either made up or just can't pronounce yet, either way it's very cute. Your words we do know are: Mama, Daddy, Adam (Am), Brother (brub), Ezra (e-ra), kitty, NO, baby, snack (nack) and Star Wars. Seriously. We sat down to watch the new cartoon a couple weeks ago and as soon as it started you pointed to the screen and said "Star Wars". And I don't want to forget that this past week you always say it twice, "Star Wars, Star Wars". It is really sweet, but Gammy doesn't like that she rates after your brother's latest obsession in your language acquistion.

You are a picky eater. If it doesn't contain sugar, you don't like it. You still eat baby food, you love baby food, and it's really the only way I can get a vegetable down you. You do love green peas, though. Can't get enough of those. Or bananas. Or the H*rmel Natural Honey Ham. Only that brand and that kind. How dare anyone try to sneak cheap turkey in on you. You also love cereal, all kinds of cereal. You figured out how to pull off the door knob covers and I spend a good portion of our day dragging you out of the pantry and sweeping various kinds of sugary goodness from the floor.

You are still teeny, but you're getting taller, about thirty inches now. You can wear your six month dresses, but they are awfully short so you are wearing mostly twelve month things now. With size two diapers. Size three just falls right off of you. You still face backwards in the car seat because you weigh only eighteen pounds. You don't mind it much, though, because you can see the boys better this way.

You think you are one of the boys. If they ride bikes, so must you. If your legs were longer, I know you'd just take off on Adam's little bike, but now you just scream as loud as you can and one of those boys will come running to push you and it makes you so happy. Ditto for the backyard swing. And the wagon. You love your brothers and greet them every morning with a kiss. Sure they gross out and wipe it off, but they really love it. You were smart to come last and have two big brothers to take care of you. I don't think you'll have to worry about anybody ever messing with you. Of course the dating years may be rough.

So you are eighteen months today (okay, last week). I promise I'll try to do better with the baby books. Maybe your two year post will occur on your actual birthday. Just know that we are still just as thrilled as we were a year and a half ago, Sweet Goosey Princess, and I know that will never get old.

How I Got Here

All my life I thought I'd be the perfect mother. I even majored in it. I aced all the child development classes I took toward my degree in, wait for it, Early Childhood Development and Elementary Education.
And then they were born. First Jacob, who is 8, then Adam, who is 4, and our biggest surprise, Elizabeth who is 2.
As much as I really wanted to be, I am finding out I am no June Cleaver. For starters, The Beav never had a baby sister.